A/N: Prompt at the end again. :-)

Retrieval

It is two o'clock in the morning and the moon is out, precisely three quarters full. Holmes is running down the centre of Seymour Street, creating perfectly formed footprints in the snow, coattails whipping like flags in a violent wind.

He can hear the breathless gasps of Lestrade behind him, but Holmes cannot wait for the Inspector. He turns down Berkeley Mews and then cuts a sharp left onto Upper Berkeley Street, does not stop until he reaches the house.

It is a slender Georgian build that ascends over three levels, perfectly set back with quaint uniformed windows and inviting in its appearance, looking as though it holds nothing sinister within.

Holmes rushes up the porch steps and hammers on the door with the side of his fist. Lestrade materialises beside him, his face coated in a sheen of perspiration.

Holmes does not stop until a light flickers from inside and the door is wrenched open by the butler, a bald, portly man wearing a long coat over his sleeping attire and a scowl across his features.

"What is the meaning of this?" he splutters. "You cannot just–"

But Holmes has already shoved past him, marched across the scrubbed marble floor and up the staircase that hugs the side of the house. Lestrade's voice echoes after him, reading the butler his rights and coated in an anger similar to that coursing beneath Holmes's skin.

The bedroom door of Sir William Kingston is open. Moonlight spills across the floor and onto the wall opposite. The man himself has entered the corridor, a confused look upon his face which swiftly turns to contempt when Holmes grips his elbow and grinds the butt of his revolver against his temple without a word.

"Well, well," drawls Kingston, his tone quiet and colloquial. "You are as remarkable as they say, Mr. Holmes. So, you have deduced it was me that killed my darling Louise. You are here because you want to know how I did it, yes?"

"I know precisely how," Holmes replies. A dark, powerful urge pulls at his ribs, a chained beast made of fear and rage fighting to claw free. He tightens his grip on the revolver so his hand does not shake.

"Oh? Well this is good." The man smiles slowly, sinister, and it takes all of Holmes's restraint not to fire. "You are here to arrest me then."

"The antidote, Kingston," Holmes demands, pressing his gun deeper into the man's flesh, feeling the hard bone beneath. "Now."

End

Prompt 04: From goodpenmanship – poison.

A/N II: *Slurps tea* … hmm, does this still taste angsty to you? …